Black Widow
by Emmy-loo
Summary: Alex Rider, Julia Rothman's son, is in a bit of trouble. An assignment that he thought had gone perfectly smoothly ends up bringing his world crashing down around him. Everything he thought he knew is a lie. Sequel to Divergence.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Sequel to Divergence, but it can be read without it. I would suggest reading Divergence if you're interested in knowing just _how _this happened. Enjoy!**

* * *

For his first, second, third and fourth birthdays, Alex Rider was given toys that he played with and soon forgot about.

For his fifth birthday, Alex Rider was given a white _gi_, a full-time martial arts tutor, and several tutors in more ordinary subjects.

For his sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth birthdays, Alex Rider was given vacations to exotic destinations around the globe—Buenos Aires, Shanghai, Geneva. He learned to scuba dive, snowboard and rock climb, among other things.

For his tenth birthday, Alex Rider was given a .40 caliber semi-automatic Walther PPS pistol.

Alex pulled at his tie and glowered. The dining hall was all done up for the occasion—deep crimson cloths covered every available space, from the tables to the banisters. Alex thought it made it look as if the room was bleeding. Then again, he thought darkly, that was probably the intention. Each place setting was dotted with small crystals. The light from the elaborate overhead chandeliers reflected off of them, making the room sparkle.

A band played quick jazz in one of the corners, and beautiful men and women smiled and danced in the open space that had been cleared. They were calling it his birthday party, and all of the guests had brought gifts—a shining silver watch, with a red scorpion flickering in the background; a really cool Japanese katana with rubies in the hilt—but Alex knew that the occasion wasn't really for him.

Julia Rothman was not far from where Alex sat and scowled. She held a champagne flute, and sipped lightly at it as he watched. Her dress, the same color as her drink, seemed to glitter. She caught him looking and turned to him, offering a wave. Alex forced his lips upward and waved back. Her companion—a man with a scruffy black beard and a mouth that seemed somehow too wide—waved as well. No one wanted to risk offending Alex, the son of perhaps the deadliest woman in the world.

Alex stood and almost kicked his chair in frustration. This was so _boring_. He really only wanted to go and play football, or maybe practice with his new sword, but he knew he wouldn't be allowed to leave for _hours_ more.

He sidled up to the bar, barely able to see above it. "Gin and tonic. On the rocks."

The barman raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, instead turning to pour Alex the drink. He knew better than to question Julia Rothman's son. The boy sat on the barstool. His feet hung in the air. A few stools down, a disgustingly affectionate couple was snogging. Alex wrinkled his nose. The barman turned back to him, sliding a pale brown drink over the dark wood bar.

Alex felt a hand on his shoulder. "A little young to start that kind of habit, eh, Alex?"

He jumped. "Ash! You're back!"

Ash grinned and clapped him on the back. He reached for the drink, taking a swig. He pursed his lips in disgust. "Ugh. If you're going to drink, do it well."

Alex laughed, drink forgotten, as he watched his godfather wince as he sat on the barstool next to Alex. "How was it?" he asked eagerly. "Did you get him? How long can you stay this time?"

Ash raised a finger for the barman, and placed an order for a scotch before he turned back to his godson. "Of course I did." He ignored Alex's other question. "What about you? Have you been practicing?"

Alex nodded eagerly. "I beat Holliston the other day in training. Stupid idiot didn't even see my feint."

Ash's smile was wide. He shook his head. "Tut, tut, Holliston! Getting beat by a nine-year-old!"

"Ten. This is my _birthday_ party, remember?"

Ash's smile seemed to falter. His scarred jaw twitched. When he spoke, his voice was wobbly. Alex frowned. "Right. Ten." He reached into his pocket. "Speaking of your birthday, lad, I have a present."

He pulled out a watch. It wasn't even close to the quality of the one he'd been given earlier in the day, but Alex watched it dangle from Ash's fingers with something close to fascination.

"It was your father's."

Alex started and looked up at Ash. "Really?"

The older man nodded. "It will probably be too big for a while, but I thought it was time for you to have it. He loved this watch."

He offered it to Alex, who couldn't take his eyes off of it. The screen was dotted with scratches, and the platinum band was indeed too large. Alex pushed the button on the side and turned the hands. He could feel Ash's eyes on his hands, watching as he pulled the gift onto his wrist.

It hung loosely, but Alex's eyes were solemn with pride when he looked up. "Thanks, Ash. That was the best present I've gotten all day."

Ash laughed and stood, trying to hide a wince. Whatever had been bothering him before had apparently been forgotten. "You're welcome."

Patting Alex on the shoulder as he passed, he said, "Just be careful about letting your mum see it, all right? It might make her…emotional."

* * *

For his fourteenth birthday, Alex Rider was given an opportunity.

"Calm down, won't you?" Nile's voice was almost too low to be heard.

Alex stopped the twitching of his fingers on his knee. "Sorry." He said nothing else, but instead took a deep breath. Drumming on his legs like that was a nervous habit, and one he needed to correct. You couldn't let yourself be nervous. Not before, not during, not after. Nervousness was a weakness.

It was dark, but not dark enough for the two of them to disappear completely. The moon was a tiny sliver, the stars bright enough to illuminate the rolling hills on which they were hidden. Alex's face was painted black, but his blonde hair—getting too long, Mum would insist on a trim soon—peeked out from underneath his ski cap. Nile needed much less face paint than Alex. Only enough to cover the parts of him that were becoming discolored, the parts that would have glowed on a night like this.

Polizer Pharmaceuticals was an enormous facility, made of ugly white cinderblock. It sat low, but was extremely long and narrow. It was settled in front a hill, facing a flat expanse of grass. Bright lights shone from every corner of the building, making the place glow like a beacon. No one looking out from the facility would be able to see them with the lights in their eyes. But it wasn't as if they had to worry. Other than the barbed wire fence, not much effort had been put toward security.

An infinite amount of time seemed to pass before Nile stirred. "Get ready," he breathed.

Alex nodded and scooted up to his rifle, a L96A1, British-designed. It had the ability to fire five rounds, but Alex knew he wouldn't need that many. Just one would do. As he gazed through the sights, his nervousness seemed to float away. There was nothing but the area shown by the scope; nothing but the area where the target would emerge. In this light, what he saw had a slight green tinge. Alex knew that this wouldn't throw him off. He had trained his entire life for this moment.

The target—a fat, balding man carrying a large briefcase—waddled purposefully out of the front doors. Another moment, and he was through the front gates. They swung shut automatically behind him. Alex switched off the safety and aimed. A feather-light touch of the trigger, and the gun recoiled. Alex saw the man fall, but he was already busy moving.

Nile was gone, racing down their hill and toward the squat buildings with the speed and grace of a leopard. Alex disassembled the rifle, shoving it into a duffel bag. His veins were pumping with adrenaline. He needed to move. He lifted the duffel to his side and stopped. A flicker of gold caught his eye.

The shell. Alex grinned, pocketing it. And then he sprinted to follow Nile. The older man was responsible for disabling the cameras. Alex was responsible for obtaining the briefcase. As he got closer, Alex could smell the burning flesh of the bullet wound. That had been something they'd described in classes, using a pig as an example. Bullets went so fast, and were so hot, that they often cauterized the skin as they passed through. But pork hadn't smelled quite so disgusting as this did.

Alex swelled up with pride as he approached the target. There was a hole almost exactly in the center of the fat man's forehead, still gushing blood. Alex bent down and picked up the briefcase, ignoring how the man's thick, sausage fingers were still warm. Once he had a firm hold on it, he backed away. Nile was waiting for him.

Alex didn't notice the gold bullet shell fall out of his pocket. Nor was he aware of the one camera that stubbornly remained functional, pointed right at him from the safety of a crooked tree.

Five hours later, in an office hundreds of miles away, a young agent delivered this security tape to the desk of Alan Blunt. With his deputy head, Mrs Jones, crouched next to him by the small screen, Blunt fast-forwarded to the image that had caught the attention of Special Operations. It was grainy, and very dark. Mark Sanders' killer was hunched over his victim's body, pulling away the man's briefcase. The assassin turned. Blunt paused the frame. There was a moment of still silence.

"Who are you?" he wondered aloud.

The boy on the screen—obviously young, blond and deadly—didn't answer.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Sorry I've sort of...disappeared for a while. Despite everything they tell you, senior year is still hard. But now I'm a fourth quarter senior who graduates in a little less than two months...so I hope that means more updating :D

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

**

* * *

**

Julia Rothman stood on the yacht, her eyes covered by sunglasses. Alex thought he could see a smile on her lips. Nile nudged him.

"Go see her. Knowing your mum, she'll be shaking in anticipation."

Alex grinned and hurried up the gangway. He dropped his backpack and duffel bag on the deck, where they landed with a clatter. His mother took off her sunglasses—Gucci, if he could see properly.

"Alex! Come, tell me everything." She held her arms out, and Alex reluctantly stepped in for a hug. He noticed with some surprise that he was almost her height. Another few months and he would be even taller than his own mother.

She pulled away, her hands on his shoulders. "I hear you were successful?" They both ignored Nile walking on deck, and he responded by turning to the captain and indicating that it was time to pull away. Alex watched out of the corner of his eye as the gangway was pulled in and the ropes anchoring them to the marina were untied and thrown aboard. There was a slight lurch as the engine kicked in, and in a moment they were on their way to Malagosto. A tension he hadn't realized he was carrying fell from his shoulders. They were home free.

He grinned at his mother. "Got him on the first shot. Fat bast—erm, loser—didn't stand a chance."

His mother ignored the slip of the tongue and took his elbow. "Let's get below deck. The sun up here is much too strong."

The yacht belonged to Scorpia, but his mother had long ago appropriated it to suit her own needs. As one of the few women even around, let alone on the Board, she claimed that she had the right. And few people dared argue with Julia Rothman. They entered the small living room below deck, but his mum stopped midstride. There was already someone in the room.

"Ash. I thought you were on the island?"

His godfather was hunched over the bar, and Alex frowned. A nearly empty glass of something clear sat in front of him.

"Was," slurred Ash. "Bu' this is tha only place aroun' with any dece- de- …good booze."

Alex could feel his mother's anger as if it were a physical shadow creeping around the room. She sucked in a breath, as if to speak, but Alex jumped in.

"Did you hear, Ash? I just got back from my first assignment."

He'd meant to diffuse the tension in the room, but it only seemed to grow. His mother's anger seemed to spark, like electricity.

"Yeah, I heard." Ash's voice was surprisingly sharp—but whether it was from the alcohol or something else, Alex couldn't tell. His godfather said nothing else.

Suddenly, Julia Rothman's anger vanished. She turned to Alex and whispered, "Ignore him. Sometimes this happens when a child hits a milestone…Ash doesn't want to think about you growing up." She smiled, but for the first time in his life, it didn't pacify Alex. Something about her excuse didn't sit well with him. It may have been the way that Ash was glaring at her. Mostly, he realized, it was because it sounded like a _lie_.

His mum walked purposefully over to the bar, and Alex followed, taking a seat on a stool a few down from Ash's.

She poured two glasses—of what, Alex didn't know. "Here," she said, pushing one toward him and purposefully not looking toward Ash. "I think you deserve a celebratory drink."

They tapped their glasses—"To Scorpia," his mother said—and Alex took a sip of the amber liquid. He nearly gagged. It made his eyes water.

His mother laughed, but didn't take his glass. "Tell me!" she said, an eagerness in her voice that Alex rarely heard. For a moment, Alex could forget his unease about her lie. "Were there any complications?"

Alex shook his head. "We got to England no problems. Nile and I travelled separately, you know, so we met up later, at the hotel. I took another look at the files and cleaned my gun—boring stuff. Then I slept."

His mother leaned forward from across the bar, something dangerous glinting in her dark eyes. "Here comes the exciting part, I can tell."

Alex couldn't help but smile. "We ate first—just room service—and then Nile told me it was time to leave. It was…exhilarating."

"You weren't nervous at all?" Something in his mother's voice made Alex wince.

"A little," he admitted. "But it went away pretty quickly. The kill itself was almost too easy."

A few stools down, Ash flinched violently. Alex looked over in alarm, but his godfather had collapsed onto the bar. He looked unconscious—the alcohol, no doubt. His mother laughed, and for a moment Alex could see why men were afraid of her. There was something triumphant in her eyes.

"Another drink," she said, holding up her glass. "To sabotage. To corruption. To intelligence. To assassination. To success!"

They tapped glasses and sipped deeply. Alex ignored the burning in his throat.

* * *

_People sometimes gathered at the shooting range to watch Alex try his hand. At eleven, he was already one of the best marksmen on the island, and he was only going to get better._

_He ignored the eyes on him and aimed his gun—this one a Beretta Laramie pistol—at the faraway target. _

_One shot and a recoil._

_Another just a second later, the recoil shooting up into his wrist._

_The last, this retort louder than the others._

_Mr Ross emerged from behind the shield and went to inspect Alex's target. Alex allowed himself a nervous swallow. If he didn't better his last attempt, Ross promised a mountain of homework on the history of the pistol._

"_Well done, Alex!" he shouted from across the range. "Two out of three in the centre! And the other one just outside."_

_Murmurs arose from those watching, and Alex couldn't help but grin. Even a year ago, he'd just been seen as the kid on campus, everyone's younger brother. Now, though, he was finally gaining some respect. Maybe now he'd be known as something other than "Rothman's son."_

_Alex made his way across the range toward Ross. The man, with his ruddy face and shock of ginger hair, usually didn't come across as friendly. He'd picked up most of his extensive knowledge in Scotland's jails, after all. But now he wore a wide grin on his face, and maybe a hint of pride as well. Alex made his way behind the shield while the next pupil stepped up—a black man with hair cropped close to his skull._

"_Watch him, Alex," Ross instructed. "He's one of the best of the new class. Reminds me of an old student, actually…" The instructor's eyes were trained across the range, and Alex watched as well. The man lifted his weapon with a grace that Alex recognized as belonging to a natural. Three shots rang out in quick succession, and Ross trotted out from behind the shield to inspect the target. Alex's mouth tightened. He hoped that he'd done better than this man. After all, he'd been learning for over a year, while this man had only been on Malagosto a month._

"_Nile, excellent! Three right in the centre!"_

_Alex had to fight against a glare. That would be stupid and childish—and he was _not_ a child anymore._

_Ross returned and put a hand on Alex's shoulder. "You'll surpass him in a year or two, Alex."_

_Alex jumped. It appeared that Ross had seen right through his attempt to remain stony-faced. "Really?" he asked, hating how his voice cracked._

_Ross nodded, his face clear. His eyes were on Nile, who moved to the back of the line that consisted of his classmates. "Really. You've got a natural talent, you do. But you're not full grown yet—when that happens, I expect all these lads will have something to be afraid of."_

* * *

Mrs Jones was ready to let her head fall to the desk in a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. A new and wholly irritating case had popped up early that morning, and what should have been a simple ID had left them grasping for straws.

A man was dead, but that wasn't even their primary concern. Neither were the files that had disappeared from his person. No, they were more interested in what the security cameras had revealed, and what a later search team had uncovered. His murderer appeared to be little more than a _child_, and a child who had left but a single clue on the scene.

The golden bullet casing was sequestered away in a forensics lab somewhere in the building's basement, and the fingerprint results were due to arrive at any moment. If those didn't pan out, she would be left with no leg to stand on.

After all, there were few _children_ in MI6's criminal database.

She unwrapped a peppermint just as a knock sounded at the door. She popped it into her mouth and then answered: "Come in."

A young agent—she didn't quite remember his name, but his enthusiasm for his job reminded her with a bitter pang of the old days—entered, a thin file in his right hand. She motioned for him to sit, and he did so with an awkward half-smile.

She forced herself to be patient. It was better when agents spoke without prompting—it led them to be more thorough in their responses, rather than just answering what they were asked.

"We didn't get any ID," he said, jumping right in. "But then, I don't think anyone was expecting us to, am I right?" His voice had a vaguely Liverpudlian tinge.

She shook her head. "The fingerprints were a long shot." Mrs. Jones reached her hand out for the file.

The agent held onto it, an uncertain expression on his face. Mrs. Jones retracted her hand.

"Say it," she commanded. "Whatever you are thinking may help us."

"Right," said the agent. "Well, we didn't get any exact matches. They were ready to give up then, but then I suggested we loosen the parameters a little—fingerprints are unique, but sometimes certain patterns can run in families. If this kid has an older brother or something in the database, it'd give us a starting block, you know?"

Mrs. Jones nodded, feeling a thrill of hope rush through her. She squashed it ruthlessly.

"Once we'd run a search with the new terms, only one other name popped up—don't get too excited," he warned, his voice disappointed. "It's a flop."

"Show me." She refused to let her voice shake, but it was irritatingly weak nonetheless.

He opened the folder. John Rider's face stared out at her.


End file.
